Getting There
by Kerkerian-Horizon
Summary: John and Sherlock after his return: with everything that happened, it can't be that easy to settle into their new life. Johnlock, set after Sherlock's return. AU to BBC canon concerning most of series 3.


**Disclaimer**: Sadly, I do not own Sherlock.

**Author's notes**: In this story, Sherlock and John are in an established relationship, it can therefore be considered AU. Furthermore, I have taken a few liberties concerning Sherlock's time in Serbia (as far as that goes however, the term liberties might be exaggerating, since we don't know much about it anyway).

Furthermore: minor spoilers for TEH ahead.

Enjoy!

* * *

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**Getting There**

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* * *

John Watson can't recall the exact moment he fell in love with Sherlock Holmes. He doesn't actually think there was one single moment, as it rather happened slowly, on a steady curve. It's undeniable that it was inevitable though. The first time John saw Sherlock, in that lab at Barts just after noon, he was too bemused to properly sort his thoughts, even though he did register that the man who was looking for a flatmate was very attractive.

Sherlock being Sherlock fobbed him off at first, which in hindsight also seemed inevitable: he tended to retreat into his shell if anyone came too close without warning. John knows that now, but he had only just met the detective when they went to Angelo's that night, and he can still taste the lingering feeling of regret, as if he'd had gotten a chance he just wasted.

He hadn't expected the affection to be mutual. Sherlock was very good at hiding it, though it did show through at times.

Even before Moriarty, life with the detective was often dramatic and rarely boring. Out of the ordinary, one could say, in every sense. When John was with Sherlock, everything seemed to intensify- emotions, colours, the stories of other lives being lived around them. He knew he was very probably imagining that, as if his nerves were standing to special attention, but it never ceased.

There was furthermore one thing John was certain about: he always got the impression that people tended to pull themselves to their full height in Sherlock's presence, surreptitiously smoothed their clothes with one quick motion, checked that their hair was behaving. John had gotten used to the fact that a lot of women and also some men looked at the detective in a way which could only mean they were mentally undressing him. There was no point in getting jealous, especially since Sherlock was completely oblivious to it, but John still didn't like it.

The more his own feelings for Sherlock intensified, the more he wanted the world around them to only see the genius who'd solve their cases, not the human being underneath. The more arrogant Sherlock came across, the better, in John's opinion. He'd become too vulnerable otherwise, and John found he couldn't bear that idea. He knew about Sherlock's susceptibilities and how fragile he was at times, he didn't want anyone to see even a fraction of that. Moriarty had come close in that regard, too close.

Miraculously, Sherlock had appeared as strong and self-confident as ever when he had faced the press after his return, and John intended to keep it that way.

* * *

It hadn't been easy, the return, for none of them; it was like the culmination of everything which had been difficult and wrong and unbearable during the previous two years of Sherlock's absence. Which was exactly the point: for Sherlock, it had been an absence, for John, it had been loss. While Sherlock had hoped to return to England one day, John had faced an abyss of grief and hopelessness and a pain which didn't seem to lessen. Now, another two years later, John is aware that Sherlock hadn't exactly had an easy time. There are too many new scars on his body and too many nightmares to contend with to pretend everything had gone smoothly.

At times, John can still feel his despair upon waking up and realizing Sherlock was gone, and it is now mingled with the regret of not knowing. Of being unable to help. His resentment of having been excluded, the anger that Sherlock didn't tell him he was alive, had mostly evaporized when he had seen that it had in fact been impossible as long as Moriarty's web hadn't been completely dismantled.

Yet the stubborn part of him had insisted that he'd been able to look after himself _and _Sherlock. It took him a rather long time to accept that Sherlock had needed to protect himself not only from Moriarty's lackeys but also his own feelings. If he had indeed told John and had taken him along, he'd have made his friend a target once more, and Sherlock couldn't have handled it if anything had happened to John.

* * *

The doctor watches his partner now, unaware that he's smiling; Sherlock is working at his microscope, concentrated and focused with a tiny frown. From time to time, he scribbles something on a notepad, murmuring to himself as he is doing so. John resists the urge to go and touch Sherlock because he doesn't want to distract him; sometimes he can't contain himself, however, needs to feel the other in order to reassure himself he's there. John is not a man who's easily spooked, but his biggest fear is to lose Sherlock again, or either wake up one day and realize that Sherlock's return has merely been a dream.

It's different to go on cases with him nowadays; being as close to Sherlock as he is now, John is worrying about him much more. Maybe it's because the hypothetical knowledge has become an actual one; now, he knows how Sherlock's body feels, how soft his skin is, how his heart sounds close to John's ear.

John also likes to listen to Sherlock's quiet breathing while he's asleep, likes to watch his partner in the dim light of the early morning. Is often overwhelmed that he is allowed to do so, has had the incredible luck to get Sherlock back, and more.

He can circle Sherlock's wrist with his thumb and index finger. He knows where Sherlock is ticklish. He has gathered the detective in his arms countless times after waking him from a nightmare; sometimes, Sherlock fought him, not quite waking up, until he realized what was happening.

It was in fact on such an occasion, only a few weeks after the detective had come home, that John had slept in Sherlock's bed for the first time. He had been woken by a scream, had hurried downstairs and found Sherlock half-awake and distraught, which had broken his heart all over again. He had silently crawled into bed with him because it seemed right, had wound his arms around the shaking man and pulled him close, and Sherlock had gratefully buried his face in John's neck, trembling, needing. And that had been it; from that moment on, they had been together. It seemed like a logical development and something they had both been waiting for, if in varying intensities.

* * *

All this makes it infinitely more difficult to witness Sherlock throwing himself into all kinds of situations with reckless abandon. They did argue because of that, more than once. Or rather, John ranted and Sherlock feigned incomprehension.

The truth is that Sherlock knows that John is worrying, now more than ever, and yet he can't change who he is. Doesn't want to, in fact, because this is what makes him Sherlock Holmes. It was surprisingly hard to pick up his old life at first, his absence and everything which had happened during the two years presenting a sizeable gap, after all. He wants John, of course, wants to keep what they are finally having, but even for John, he can't give up his job; he gave up everything for the doctor once (and he'd do so again if he had to), it must be sufficient.

What's worse: despite it all, John understands. Of course he does. He understands and worries and tries to protect Sherlock. He doesn't reprimand him when things go wrong, but his expression softens considerably if Sherlock at least appears contrite after a mishap.

Once, and Sherlock still isn't sure how it could happen, someone took him hostage. It was rather embarrassing, really, and tedious at that. In the end, Sherlock got out unharmed, but he'll never forget John's face: he looked as though someone had physically hurt him, his shoulders tense, his features contorted, his mouth set in a thin line. His expression however seemed to melt when the rescued and apparently uninjured detective took a step towards him, and he only said one word, voice soft and gentle and full of love and relief: "Sherlock." Who hadn't even begun to arrange his face into a contrite look and was therefore astonished not to be greeted with a sound verbal scolding.

* * *

Sherlock likes that John is able to be silent. They can talk with each other, of course, but John also is one of the few people who refrain from mindless babble when there's nothing to say, and he can not talk as well. They can in fact spend hours without uttering a single word, and it's never an awkward silence but rather pleasant. There is after all a significant difference between not having anything to say and not needing to say anything.

Sometimes Sherlock lies awake at night and ponders the sleeping man next to him. John is unnaturally patient, but he won't let anyone fool him (well, most of the time). He's honest and loyal and not easily intimidated, and he's always gentle with Sherlock (if one doesn't count his rather violent initial reaction to being told Sherlock wasn't dead after all, _surprise_). Who hates being fussed about, but John is never fussing. He is gentle but firm whenever he treats any injuries, he is gentle but determined when he wants Sherlock to do something the detective is refusing to, he is gentle but strong when he supports Sherlock if his partner for whichever reasons can't keep his legs under him.

John makes a lot of things in life easier, his presence soothes Sherlock, invigorates him, shows him that there is such a thing as happiness. At first, Sherlock didn't like the feeling of losing control over his emotions, but he has gotten used to unexpected bouts of butterflies in his stomach and the silly grin he sometimes catches himself with when he thinks of the doctor, or just watches him.

_Raison d'etre_, he thinks, and shudders. It's true, however: without John, he might not even be here. There was a time during his absence which he'd best like to forget. The memories of it are dark and nightmarish, they are in fact responsible for a large part of the nightmares he is still having. If it hadn't been for John, he'd probably have given up during that time, would have given in to the strain of torture and mistreatment, of hunger and thirst and pain. Only the thought of John had kept him alive, he was certain of that.

* * *

Some nights, it's rather difficult to disentangle himself from the sticky tendrils of what is haunting him in his dreams, taking a lot of effort and time to wake up, to realize what's true and what's behind him. Sometimes John's touch increases his panic even more, more often however the doctor manages to get through to Sherlock just as he's on the brink of really waking up, which is good because it means Sherlock won't start fighting him. Either way, Sherlock is usually drenched in cold sweat on those occasions, and his heartbeat is uncomfortably fast.

He found it embarrassing to have a witness at first, but John never made him feel awkward. He kept talking to Sherlock instead, soothing him a quiet voice, wrapping him in his arms and unintrusive affection until the shaking ceased and the detective's breathing had calmed. Then he usually got up to get a fresh shirt and a glass of water for Sherlock, all without a fuss. The detective appreciated it and at the same time felt bad, because he knew that John had been dealing with nightmares himself, back when they had met and even a few times after they had moved into 221B. John had had to get through those dreams alone, no one had been there for him, had held him and rocked him ever so slightly if he couldn't stop trembling.

Thoughts like these were wholly unfamiliar for Sherlock, who had so far been of the opinion that every grown-up person could look after themselves if they were reasonably intelligent, but he had to admit that a lot of things had changed after the Reichenbach case. He himself would never have expected that he'd need to be held, that he'd sometimes shake so badly it resembled an earthquake; not him, not because of something physical which had happened in the past. And yet he did, and thanks to John he wasn't really ashamed of it any longer. Apparently, everyone had weaknesses, even he.

* * *

Of course, John wants Sherlock to talk about it. He is rather adamant about that after an especially severe episode in the early hours of the morning which had left both of them shaking.

"Tell me," John all but pleads, something Sherlock doesn't appreciate. He will talk about it one day, but not just yet. He needs to put more distance between then and now, even though he knows it's unhealthy to postpone it. For the time being however, he doesn't want to go back, doesn't want to put himself in such a vulnerable position.

"It'll keep coming back if you suppress it," John says when Sherlock, who's just pulled his sweat-soaked shirt over his head, remains silent.

"I can't, John." Sherlock's voice is very low.

"Not even with me?"

John doesn't push him further when Sherlock wordlessly shakes his head and slowly turns away from him, exposing his back.

John has seen the scars, of course, and it takes a lot out of him to not fly into a searing red rage every time he does. Now he slowly exhales, silenced by the force of the shock he feels anew. Nothing Sherlock could have said would have made such an impact, and John suddenly feels like an idiot. With a shudder of affection, he quickly closes the short distance between them and winds his arms around the other man, fiercely, protectively, pulling him into the security of his embrace: "I'm sorry," he murmurs into Sherlock's ear, "I'm sorry."

He can feel Sherlock quiver, but a moment later, the tension in his body abates, and he sags against John. _Me, too_, he thinks but doesn't say out loud. He is exhausted, but closing his eyes is not an option yet. He needs to listen to John's heartbeat for a while longer, to conjure up some music which accompanies the steady rhythm. It's the best means of distraction he can manage right now that he's so wrung out. This time, it's difficult to calm his racing mind. He can barely recall those dreams, but he's convinced it's not necessarily the torture itself which is haunting him in his sleep but the humiliation, a caleidoscope of being taunted, helpless, at the mercy of others.

Furthermore, the certainty that he'd lost control, emphasized by the way he'd been held- three weeks in a dark, damp room, with a ceiling too low to stand. He'd only gotten a minimum of water and rarely anything to eat, he'd not been able to wash and sometimes had sullied himself when he'd been left alone for too long, hands bound and/or unable to move because of the previous interrogation.

The pain itself had been manageable at the time, but he sometimes thinks that maybe he'd only managed on the surface, which might be why he's reliving it in the night.

* * *

For the time being, John relents and doesn't continue to press Sherlock to look for either his or other, more professional help. Lets him take his time. Instead, he tries to get him to agree to a holiday. A real holiday, somewhere nice, just the two of them. Preferably even in another country.

Of course, Sherlock is being difficult about it.

"I've been abroad before," he says, "I don't need to go again."

John, pinching the bridge of his nose, silently counts till five: "You've never been with me," he then replies with as much calmness as he can muster. "And it's not about _having _to go- it's about enjoying ourselves."

"I do enjoy myself best at a crime scene."

"Oh, thank you very much. Good to know."

"... I didn't mean it like that. You know what I meant."

He is met with stony silence.

"John?"

"You're an idiot, Sherlock."

"And selfish, I suppose."

"Yes. That too. I was going to say it."

"No need, actually; you were thinking it really loudly."

John folds his arms in front of his chest: "You're trying to distract me, and stop rolling your eyes like that."

Sherlock senses that the doctor wasn't appeased yet, despite his rather forgiving tone. What is worse: he doesn't manage to hide that he is hurt, if ever so slightly. Sherlock doesn't mind hurting other people, but he can't bear hurting John. John, whom most people would probably describe as sturdy and imperturbable (because he admittedly likes to give that impression), but who is astoundingly sensitive.

Whenever the doctor is hurting, Sherlock is reminded of a small bird who'd been caught, put into a cage and then forgotten. After Sherlock's return, he'd learned just how much he had hurt John, and it had been so much worse than he'd ever imagined. He is still ashamed about it, ashamed and truly sorry. He doesn't want to think of the little bird. He wants John happy.

"Hypothetically," he therefore asks, "where did you want to go?"

"I don't know... Greece, maybe?"

* * *

They end up in France. After quite a bit of negotiating, Sherlock had finally given in and conceded that it might actually be nice to go on a holiday together, as long as it didn't include obnoxious people (_goodbye, everything even remotely near any kind of civilization_, thought John), too much heat (_goodbye, Greece_), having to stumble through old ruins (_ditto, and give my best to Italy, too_), sleeping in a tent (_God, no_, thought John, as the horrors of Sherlock in a tent were unfeasable) or the Highland Games (_I won't even ask_).

They go to Brittany, which, even though it is admittedly rather close to home, has something refreshingy different about it. And it's nothing like Cornwall either, as John discovers rather quickly, the coastline and also the hinterland vary a lot more.

They are lucky concerning the weather, there are only two days on which it rains a little. One of those, in the second week, they spend in and around Locronan, a small town which looks as though time has stopped in the middle ages. The rain has transformed into a kind of thick moisture; even in the early afternoon, everything looks like it's wrapped in fog; every light, no matter how small, looks like a beacon.

They walk up one narrow, cobbled lane; large hydrangea shrubs which are blossoming cornflower-blue are growing in a rather steep garden, at the bottom of which stands an old, cosy looking house. For a moment, John wishes they lived here; it's probably his subconscious telling him that he'd like to take a part of this holiday home. You're being sentimental again, he chides himself. Part of why he's actually happy though is that even Sherlock is relaxed; this literal change of air has done both of them good. The nightmares are fewer and less intense, and John for once isn't worrying about anything at all.

"Why are you frowning?" Sherlock's voice cuts through the moist air.

"I'm... it's nothing." John stops to look at Sherlock. "I'm glad we're here. Together."

Now it's Sherlock who's frowning. "Wasn't that the point of this whole outing?"

"Yes," John, as ever, is patient with him. "Still. We didn't know how it'd turn out. You surprised me, is all."

"I did?"

"You seemed to enjoy yourself so far. And I sincerely hope that I've by now become a well enough judge of when you're only pretending you do."

Sherlock's frown deepens for a moment (and John's stomach is doing a small but distinct somersault at how actually cute he looks) before his features ease into a smile: "I didn't pretend," he says, softly, "I am enjoying it. I have to admit that I'm surprised myself. I wasn't even bored very often."

Which probably is the biggest compliment he can make. John, not caring whether anyone's watching, smiles as well and steps closer to Sherlock: "I love you," he says very quietly, and for a moment, it's as if they are alone in this strange, aquatic existence. Sherlock doesn't echo his partner, but the way he returns John's gaze, allowing himself to get lost in it for the time being while his smile even deepens, is a sufficient substitute.

* * *

Sherlock didn't lie; ever since he's come back, he finds himself more content with things he'd not deemed a suitable or fulfilling way to spend his time before. Such as doing something John suggests, going to a museum or just taking a leisurely walk along the Embankment, for example. He realized that it didn't matter what they did (as long as it wasn't entirely boring) as long as John was with him.

There were exceptions, of course, but on the whole, Sherlock had had a lot of time to think during his captivity, and it did make a difference whether one had a choice or not. It had been incredible, once he'd been free and able to walk, to be up and in a position to decide what one wanted to do. The possibilities seemed endless.

Once his euphoria had ceased a little, Sherlock had inevitably taken up his old habits again, of course, but John managed to change that, gradually; not that the detective had to give up anything, but there were new things, such as said outings. So maybe it was less of a change and more of... adding things. John was someone who never forgot how big the sky was, even after they'd been frantically working on a case and literally had blocked out everything else.

He made Sherlock see that a lot of things he'd dismissed before weren't as boring as he'd thought, were interesting even, worth trying. Such as this holiday. Sherlock thinks they might go to Greece next year.

* * *

The echo of these ponderings seems to be visible in his eyes, for even as the moment has passed, and the moment after that, John keeps smiling at Sherlock, tilting his head ever so minutely: "Sherlock?"

An old couple is coming down the lane; while the man is not paying any attention to them, the woman is eyeing them curiously.

"Yes!" Sherlock says, clearing his throat. "Sorry. I was distracted."

"By what?"

"By you."

"By me? You mean, it is I who distracted you from me?"

"Yes. I was thinking about you. And being with you."

"And how's that?"

"Preferable to anything else," Sherlock says truthfully.

John's stomach is full of butterflies now.

"You're incredible," he mutters, with so much warmth in his tone. He had seen Sherlock's thoughts veering off right now, but that's the last thing he'd expected. And he is certain that he'd fall in love with Sherlock this instant if he hadn't done that already, and many times after it had happened before. He still can't say when exactly it happened, but he is sure about one fact: it is still happening. They are good together, Sherlock and he, and he is proud that they have come so far, in every sense of the word.

On this more or less empty and very narrow, cobbled lane in a small town in France, John Watson pulls Sherlock Holmes close and kisses him.

And the best thing is that Sherlock Holmes kisses him right back.

* * *

**The End**

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